


do every stupid thing that makes you feel alive

by guineaDogs



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, Cheating, Coercion, Dark, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, Gritty, M/M, Needles, Praise Kink, Quintessence is a drug, Self-Destruction, Sexual Coercion, but Keith hates it, but it's coerced, intravenous drug use, needle sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25141552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineaDogs/pseuds/guineaDogs
Summary: Quintessence. Keith doesn’t know exactly what it is, how it’s extracted, or even what the source material is. For all he knows, it could come from a plant like coca or poppy, but he can readily admit that he doesn’t care.He can insist how "good" it is for him, and for Shiro, all day long. But it doesn't change that it's highly addictive, and the limits he set for what he'd never do for a fix have instead become a checklist.
Relationships: Keith/Lotor (Voltron), Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38





	do every stupid thing that makes you feel alive

**Author's Note:**

> Please make sure you read the tags. This fic definitely has a lot of themes that could be triggering or uncomfortable. 
> 
> [Find me on Twitter](https://twitter.com/guineaDogs).

“Baby. Baby.” He sounds anguished with beads of sweat gathering on his forehead. As they gather enough substance, they stream down the sharp edges of his face. Even at his worst like this, Shiro is beautiful.

Keith, attentive as ever, moves quickly. He settles in his lap, his lithe form hunching over Shiro as he brushes damp tufts of hair away from his forehead. “I’m here.” Shiro’s gaze isn’t focused, but the way he leans into the touch is all the confirmation Keith needs to know that Shiro hears him, and is with him. 

He doesn’t have to say what he needs. Keith understands perhaps better than anyone in the entire world. Shiro needs the same things he does—perhaps even more so. It’s a commonality that’s interwoven into every aspect of their lives. It wasn’t always that way, but now that it has been for as long as Keith chooses to remember, he can’t imagine their lives being any other way. 

Keith’s hands slide down Shiro’s cheeks, stroking his thumbs over the trails the beadlets of sweat leave behind. “I know you’re coming down, Shiro, but I’m not going to let you fall. I’m going to make you feel better,” he promises with a sweet kiss to his lips. Shiro’s hand settles on his hip, squeezing. The contact passes quickly, as Keith pushes himself to get off the bed to kneel on the floor. He doesn’t even have to look anymore to find the loose floorboard just barely hidden under the bedskirt. Long fingers slide over the old wood, find the edge sticks up just slightly. It always gives just enough when he presses in the right spot, which allows him to lift it up and retrieve the small box he keeps stored there. 

It’s only slightly longer than his outstretched palm. The varnish is fading, and the edges of the box are chipped and cracked in different places, but it still works and ultimately that’s good enough for Keith. He opens it, just enough to confirm everything is supposed to be there: the shoelace, the needle, the almost-empty vial of luminescent  _ magic _ .

_ Quintessence. _ Keith doesn’t know exactly what it is, how it’s extracted, or even what the source material is. For all he knows, it could come from a plant like coca or poppy, but he can readily admit that he doesn’t care. The only thing that matters is that it  _ works. _ He’s seen it happen. He’s seen how the medicines and treatments didn’t help Shiro, but  _ this _ did.

He can’t lie to himself. It’s helped him too. He needs it more than he needs oxygen or food or water. Just like Shiro.

Closing the lid again, he moves back to Shiro’s lap, clutching the box to his chest as if its contents are so fragile that one moment of carelessness will result in the end of the world. In a way, he’s sure that’s exactly what would happen. 

Shiro’s chest is heaving, and it takes everything in him to refrain from pressing his face between his pecs, kissing him and licking up his sweat. Maybe later. Keith knows that’s not going to help him as much as the quintessence will. 

The room is dark, with only cracks of sunlight seeping in from the window. The blanket they have draped over the blinds can only do so much. More often than not, it’s an annoyance: the sunlight hurts his eyes, his head. Right now, it does have a use. There’s just enough light in the room where he can see the underside of Shiro’s arm, and the fading bruise about it.

It’s as thin as a shoelace, and extends around the thick of his arm. That’s Keith’s fault; sometimes the makeshift tourniquet slips, tightens, and pinches skin too much. But usually Shiro does this himself, and if he passed the needle over, Keith knows that he still could. There’s a certain sort of intimacy that can’t be replicated outside of moments like these. There is no other person that Shiro would trust to do this for him, and that knowledge makes his heart feel full. 

His fingers gingerly trace over the bruise as his thoughts drift, but not for long. He ties the shoelace around Shiro’s arm, sliding his fingers over the bulging veins that appear not long after. Keith extracts the quintessence from the vial, marveling at its phosphorescent qualities as he sticks Shiro with the needle and presses his thumb against the syringe. He quickly removes the shoelace, and shoves it back into the box, followed by the needle and vial. A shuddering gasp escapes Shiro’s mouth, and Keith quickly leans down to capture Shiro’s lips with his own.

Shiro’s veins are aglow as it spreads up through his arm. It fades in a couple moments, and by that point Shiro’s breathing steadies. His arms wrap around Keith’s back and pull him in. Keith rests his head on his shoulder, tucking his nose into the side of Shiro’s neck. He smells too sweet, almost sour, but this is Shiro, so he can’t bring himself to care.

He throws his arm across Shiro’s broad chest, and with Shiro’s heavy hold on him, Keith is content to just exist this way. He knows what Shiro is feeling right now, knows how long it sometimes takes to come back up from it. Keith can be patient for him. 

Silence fills the room. Beyond the thin walls, Keith can hear the faint ambient sounds of the outside world. The rumble of an engine being turned over, the blaring of a horn, the barking of a dog—they’re all typical things to hear in this part of their city, at this time of day, and that brings Keith some level of comfort. 

Shiro comes around when he comes around, shifting onto his side, breathing him in. “Keith.” The way Shiro says his name sends a rush down his spine. It sounds like Shiro is grounding himself with his name, and Keith laments there are corporeal limitations; he’s never going to be able to hold him as close as he wants.

“You good?” Keith runs his fingers through Shiro’s hair. It’s so short, but much softer than it looks. If he wasn’t brimming with energy right then, he could drift to sleep just due to how much this relaxes him. 

Shiro nods with a hum. His large hand slides up Keith’s side, pushing his shirt up. “Want me to—?” 

Fuck, Keith wants him to. He wants nothing more than for Shiro to roll him over and lavish him in kisses and touches as he presses the needle into his skin. He knows Shiro will never give it to him in the femoral artery like he wants, so he’ll settle for his arm or between his toes, even. It doesn’t matter; he just wants it in him, he wants to feel Shiro on him— _ in him _ —when that tidal wave rushes over him and causes him to sink down into the mattress. 

He wants it so badly, and it pains him that he has to shake his head. “That was all we had left.”

They’ll have to get more, some way or another, but right now he’s okay. He’s certain he can weather the inevitable crash he has coming. 

* * *

The crash comes sooner than expected. The relentless itching beneath his skin that makes him wish he could claw at his dermis from the inside out. To make matters worse, his mouth is a desert, and no amount of drinking fixes that. He even tries leaning over the kitchen sink, drinking directly from the faucet. This is what he is now. This is what he’s been reduced to: an itchy, dehydrated void.

He needs his fix.

Keith knows that. He’s not even at the worst of it yet, but it’s coming. There’s one, intsy tinsy problem standing between him and obtaining more quintessence: he’s broke. He has his moments where he’s barely cognizant of the passage of time, but he is more than aware of how deep in the red his bank account is.

And Shiro is at work. He can’t very well ring him up going ‘ _ Takashi, I need my fix.’ _

That’s not entirely true—he’s done that before, but it didn’t work out well and Keith doesn’t particularly want to deal with Shiro getting annoyed with him about it. He’s not supposed to ask for money while Shiro is at work, even though it’s not totally  _ not _ Keith’s fault that his own finances are a mess. 

From his spot in the kitchen, he can hear the _click_ _click_ of the analogue clock. It’s loud. Too loud to concentrate on any sort of tangible thought beyond that drive to solve the all-encompassing need to obtain more quintessence.

He paces.

And paces. It’s not the first time he’s done this, and it won’t be the last. One day the floorboards are going to wear out and give in beneath his feet.

There’s still hours until Shiro comes home. Keith can’t wait hours. That’s when he notices he isn’t alone in the house. Keith isn’t at all concerned that at some point he missed one of his roommates passed out on the sectional. Though Lance isn’t actually a roommate in a traditional sense, not like Hunk. There’s no leasing agreement, or even a bedroom for him. Keith is fairly certain that Lance was just there one day, and never left. 

It doesn’t matter. What matters is that his sort of friend, sort of roommate is laying on his stomach, face pressed down against the couch cushion. His mouth is open, he’s drooling, and there’s a subtle rise and fall of his ribcage. Lance might be out cold, but he’s still breathing. Keith doesn’t feel a shred of guilt as he leans over the back of the couch to carefully tug Lance’s wallet from his back pocket with his thumb and forefinger. Lance would do the same if the situation was reversed.

He flips the wallet open, finding a few bills that amount to $43. It’s an entire forty-three dollars that he doesn’t have himself, and while it won’t be enough to buy another vial, Keith feels foolish enough to think it may be enough for just a hit, just enough to get him by for the time being. 

* * *

He tugs an oversized hoodie on before he leaves. Keith is fairly certain that it’s technically Shiro’s, and it’s technically far too late in the summer to wear something like this, but the sleeves come down to his knuckles and effectively cover the tracks on his arms. He’s baking the moment he steps outside under the blazing sun, and the dusty, dry airy air fills his lungs.

The coughing fit comes before he even makes it to the sidewalk. But this is fine. He’s fine. He can handle this. There’s a waterfall of sweat dripping down his arms, his torso, and the back of his neck, all hidden beneath the hoodie, but it’s fine. It’s only about a half hour walk to his destination, which is nothing he can’t handle.

Keith shoves his hands into the kangaroo pocket of the hoodie, keeping his shoulders hunched and head down as he traverses the cracked sidewalks. There are eyes on him. He doesn’t have to glance around to feel them, but he hopes it’s because he’s wearing a hoodie when the heat index is somewhere around 100, not because of the marks they can’t see, or his pallor skin or the dark circles around his eyes that indicate just how little he’s slept in...however long it’s been. It doesn’t matter. 

The thought that this is a terrible idea crosses his mind when he’s halfway there. But he’s come this far, and now there’s a tremble in his hand that clenching his fist doesn’t abate, so what choice does he have? He can keep going, get his fix, or he can go back home with nothing except the added misery of being hot and even more dehydrated.

So Keith powers on, and with each block he walks, the scenery fades from the familiar mix of dilapidated residential housing and small businesses to buildings that are a little less run down, until he reaches a busy commercial district. Another half block, and then he arrives at his destination.

It’s an unassuming building that looks like every other storefront on the block. There’s no ostentatious signage, no flashing lights. It’s just an office building with tall windows that have blinds pulled down halfway down to block out the afternoon sun. It’s the first time he’s been here during the day, and it’s the first time he’s come through the front entrance.

Bells chime as he steps inside. Cool air plummets his overheated body. The shock of it passes, and as he looks around, he’s immediately struck by how  _ bland _ the lobby is. There are cheap chairs lining the walls: the sort that have a metal frame but no arms with the seats themselves being swooping black plastic buckets. There’s a coffee table covered in outdated magazines. It sort of reminds Keith of a doctor’s office. 

In a way it is. To him, at least.

“Can I help you?” 

Keith doesn’t know how long he’s stood there in the doorway, staring at boring furniture, but judging by the impatient tone and overall scowl of the tall woman sitting behind the reception desk, it’s either been a while or she just doesn’t want someone like him there. Either could be true at the same time, and that’s not lost on him. 

He takes a couple steps closer so he’s not occupying the entire doorway. “I need to—” His hand itches, right between his knuckles and it’s distracting enough that he loses his train of thought. “I need to see Lotor.”

“Uh-huh.” She’s staring at him, wearing this unimpressed expression. Her eyes flit over him in a way that makes his knees feel like jelly. He feels raw and exposed, like she can see right through his hoodie. Like she knows exactly why he’s there. “I take it you don’t have an appointment.”

A strangled noise escapes his throat. Of course he doesn’t have an appointment. All of this is on a whim, but he’s come so far, and he’s so close to being able to fix everything in the world if only he can see his dealer. Keith can’t allow himself to be turned away now. “No. But I need to see him. Tell him it’s Keith.”

“Keith…?”

“Just Keith.” 

She rolls her eyes at him as she reaches for her phone. Over the edge of the counter, he can’t see exactly what she’s doing, but presumably she’s calling Lotor’s extension and not the cops. The mere thought of that possibility sends a jolt of electricity down his spine. It’s the uncomfortable sort, the kind that has the hairs on the back of his neck rising, the kind where he can feel eyes on him again. 

Her lips are moving, but rather than words, she sounds like muted static and reverberations. His senses are honed into the knowledge that there’s someone behind him. Keith can only stand there rigidly for so long before he gives in, and glances over his shoulder. 

To find no one there.

His eyes narrow as he scans, looking for the dark figures in hidden corners. It’s troubling, but he can’t give his worries the time that he may have in other circumstances. 

“Sir?  _ Sir.”  _ The smack of this woman with impeccable customer service skills hits the counter, and Keith immediately looks back at her, eyes wide. “I said take a seat. Lotor will be with you shortly.”

“Thank you,” he mumbles, and takes a seat in a chair along the side of the wall, one that allows him to see both the front door and the one beside the receptionist desk simultaneously. Except he doesn’t focus his gaze there. He doesn’t focus on anything beyond the incessant tapping of his foot as he waits.

The passage of time is something beyond his breadth of understanding right now. It feels like a long time time, though, like Lotor is watching him from the camera affixed to the ceiling, waiting for until right before he cracks to open the door. It could be a coincidence, but Keith has his doubts, because that door opens right when he thinks he can’t take it anymore.

Keith’s eyes fall first to pristine, polished black loafers, then to the black slacks just above them, the belt, the obviously tailored violet button up. It’s an impeccable outfit, but that comes as no surprise: in every encounter Keith has had with him, Lotor has dressed flawlessly. It’s not something Keith cares about personally—practical is the way to go, even if his definition of  _ practical _ is risking heat stroke—but he’s observant. 

And he’s more than aware that Lotor does not look thrilled to see him. 

Lotor stares him down, but Keith’s never been one to cower. He merely looks up at him from the chair, elbows resting on his knees. Waiting. 

“Come on, then.” Lotor’s words are like ice, and he doesn’t linger. He pushes the door open more, his long white hair flowing, wavelike, as he turns and makes his way to his office. Keith follows, and when he arrives at Lotor's office, he has to squeeze past him.

The door closes with an audible  _ click _ as Keith glances around. Lotor sits down on a chic couch adjacent to his desk, leisurely resting his ankle on his opposite knee. “What brings you here, Keith?”

He chews on the inside of his cheek. “Need more Q.”

“And you thought it was appropriate to show up unannounced, during my operating hours. Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“No,” Keith retorts defensively. “It couldn’t wait.”

Lotor brushes his hair out of his face with a swift swipe of his hand. “Then I take it you have $300 on you.” Keith’s silence says it all, and a flash of anger spreads across his face. “Your time may not have value, but  _ mine _ does. I ought—”

“I have $43,” Keith interjects. “I just want enough to get me by until I can get the money for the usual. Or give me the usual, and I’ll pay the difference later. Or—” He winces. A long time ago, he created a mental list of things he’d never do in order to achieve a high. But over time, it’s only proved to be a checklist of things he  _ would  _ do. Now is no different. “—or I could do something for you in exchange. Quid pro quo.”

Lotor leans back into the couch, resting an arm along the backside. “What exactly are you offering me?”

“Anything, I don’t know. I’ll help you move your product. I know my way around the city.”

Lotor snorts. “As if I’d trust a junkie with that.” He stands up and walks toward his desk. Keith assumes that one of the drawers is locked, or has a secret section, because a moment after leaning over and fussing with it, he produces a familiar vial and sets it on his desk in clear view. Keith finds himself unable to look away from it, even as Lotor moves again, this time to lean back against the front of his desk with his arms crossed. “I’d much rather your mouth.”

“My mouth.” Keith’s face twists in rage. “No fucking way, man.” 

“You said you’d do anything, Keith. That’s my price for the whole vial. Take it or leave it.”

Keith hates himself. He’s flushed, and it’s not just because of the heat or the withdrawal. It’s the conscious mortification he has for this moment, for  _ himself. _ But he needs the fix. He needs more quintessence, he feels like he’ll suffocate without it; it’s his means for survival and that matters more than whatever shred of dignity he has left. 

The thought of Shiro hits him with the force of an overloaded semi truck. He knows he should walk out right now. But he needs it the quintessence. Shiro needs the quintessence. Keith’s nod is almost imperceptible, but there’s no mistake about the steps he makes to close the distance between them, or in lowering himself onto his knees. Still, Keith finds himself hesitating, staring at the vial as his fists clench at the loose denim covering his own legs.

Lotor’s smile is cruel as he looks down at him. “What’s the matter? I won’t tell Shirogane if you won’t. It can be our little secret.” 

Keith wants to retch. 

* * *

He can’t be certain if it’s his need for quintessence that has his hands trembling, or if it’s a tell for how reluctant he feels. It’s probably both, but as he reaches for Lotor’s belt, Keith doesn’t allow himself to think about it. The only thing that matters is the quintessence, which is still in his periphery. 

He will do anything for it, because what other choice is there? 

He tugs at the belt and unhooks it. Once out of the way, he unbuttons Lotor’s pants, carefully unzipping them. Tugging firmly, the pants fall down to Lotor’s knees. The weight of the belt buckle freed it somewhat from the belt loops, and it clattered to the floor with a thump.

Lotor’s underwear is a pair of snug briefs, and the ridiculous thought crosses Keith’s mind: these are probably specially tailored, too. Keith digs his thumbs under the waistband of the briefs and pulls them down to the middle of his thighs. His legs are lean, not dissimilar to the way Keith’s are. It’s not a bad thing, technically speaking, especially with the sharp contrast between his skin and his white leg hair. It’s just that Keith prefers beefier thighs, a  _ single  _ pair of thighs, really, and this is an unwelcome of the particular predicament he’s gotten himself into. 

Keith drifts off somewhere to the darkest corners of his mind that always seem to be growing and spreading at a cancerous pace. It’s not a pleasant place to go—it’s where he tries to lock away the broken parts of himself, the part of himself that feels dead and numb to everything but the hunger that drives so many of his actions. 

He’s a void. But somehow, a void that cares far too much to let this sit well with him. 

It’s a snap of long fingers, nearly a centimeter away from his eyes that draws him out of it. His gaze refocuses as he looks up at Lotor. His thoughts feel hazy then, like he’s struggling to grasp that this is real and not some weird esoteric nightmare. 

“Get on with it, Keith. Don’t make me tell you again.” 

Keith’s gaze flits down to the cock in front of him. Lotor has the audacity to be flaccid.

It feels like an insult. He's debasing himself as it is, and he doesn't even have the benefit of Lotor being fucked up enough to be aroused by this scenario. Keith has to work for it. Lotor delicately picks up the vial, holding it between his fingers in a way that reminds Keith exactly what's at stake.

Keith's long fingers curl around the base of Lotor's cock while he braces himself against Lotor by clutching his thigh. The first stroke is a languid one with Lotor soft in his hand. There's a solid weight to it, and even like this he can tell he's somewhere  _ above average _ —but he's not comparable to Shiro. 

There is a bias there, in the sense that Shiro is on a pedestal. He's perfect in every way, but even objectively speaking, Lotor's cock pales in comparison. The observation doesn't make him feel any better about the situation, beyond the reminder that he can handle this easily. 

His thumb runs over the tip, and he can feel Lotor hardening to a half chub. That's good, but of course not good enough. Keith's never been one to deal in half measures, even in the worst circumstances. 

Ignoring the unsettling sensation in his gut, he leans in, dragging his tongue along the underside of Lotor's cock from the base to tip. There's an edge of defiance as he meets Lotor's gaze with his own. He might be broken already, but he isn’t going to let Lotor shatter him into pieces. 

Keith’s tongue reaches the tip. He’s on autopilot as he swirls his tongue around the tip. Lotor is impassive and silent, but with each movement, he can feel the cock in his harden. By the time he takes him in fully, Keith can feel him throbbing in his mouth. He’s disgusted. The worst part is that his body isn’t. His body hasn’t forgotten just how much he  _ loves _ the taste of cock, or how much he enjoys the sensation of it hardening and throbbing in his mouth, and he can feel his blood rush further south accordingly. 

He still has some self-respect remaining—at least enough that he opts not to acknowledge the growing problem trapped beneath his skinny jeans. Instead, he keeps his focus entirely on providing the most lackluster blowjob of his life. Keith drifts into autopilot. He’s sucked enough cock in his life that he doesn’t have put thought into it. He just has to do enough to earn the quintessence. Nothing more, nothing less.

It doesn’t even cross his mind that Lotor has anything else in mind until there’s a sharp jerk of his hair firmly enough that he can feel the roots straining against his scalp as he’s forced to look up at Lotor, slack jawed and wincing. Drool slides down his chin, and as much as he desperately feels the need to wipe it away with the back of his hand, he doesn’t move. 

“And here I thought you wouldn’t be a disappointment. But as they say, if you want something done right…” Lotor’s words trail off for a moment, but then he’s grabbing Keith’s jaw, digging his fingers in hard enough that Keith has to wonder whether it’ll bruise. “Open your mouth, boy.”

Keith obeys.

The grip on his jaw loosens, and Lotor’s hand slides back to grip the back of his head while the other still holds onto his hair. Keith leans back in, taking Lotor back into his mouth. The moment more than the tip is in his mouth, Lotor bucks his hips, and Keith scrambles for purchase as Lotor thrusts his cock down his throat. 

Lotor doesn’t give him a chance to react. He doesn’t care that as he relentlessly fucks Keith’s throat, Keith is struggling to breathe, struggling not to choke. Tears prick his eyes, his knees ache. His body is screaming at him for his  _ fix _ . He needs to be touched. But he doesn’t want it to be Lotor.

“That’s it,” Lotor comments, grunting and moaning as he uses Keith. “You’re so good.” 

The praise makes his skin crawl.

Keith isn’t sure how long it goes on. It’s hard to think when he’s reduced to this state. He just wants it to end. That’s the one clear thought he has, and it’s followed by his awareness that Lotor’s breathing is becoming ragged. His pace wavers. This is his chance—Keith reaches between his thighs and palms at Lotor’s sack. His fingers stroke the soft skin just beyond it, and the combination seems to be enough to finish Lotor off. 

His grip on Keith’s head tightens, and while his sounds are measured, his movements are frantic. Lotor comes with a low groan, shooting white-hot down his throat. Keith isn’t sure how he manages to swallow it down rather than the less-becoming alternative, but in a sick way he’s proud of himself for it. He doesn’t want to give Lotor any reason to deny him. 

Lotor lets go of him, tucking himself back into his pants and adjusts his outfit until he looks as pristine as he did previously, save for the flush of his cheeks. Keith stays where he is, leaning back on his heels. His throat aches, and he’s more than cognizant of the fact that he’s going to need to spray chloraseptic down his throat if he’s going to stand a chance in acting like everything is fine and normal. 

But it’s not fine and normal. He knows that. He can feel it, on several levels. It’s just not something he can deal with right now, not in front of Lotor. Not when he’s so close to getting what he came all this way for.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting this.” Lotor dangles the vial in front of him. The moment Keith reaches for it, it’s yanked out of his reach. “Do  _ not _ waste my time again. Understood?”

Keith scrambles to his feet, and the sudden change in position combined with the weakness of his knees makes him feel unsteady. “I understand.” 

Lotor places the vial in his hand, and Keith immediately curls his fingers around it. There’s no way he’ll drop it. “Take the back way out.”

He leaves Lotor’s office, and continues down the hall toward an exit sign. Keith pushes on the door, stumbling into a poorly lit and filthy alley. It’s a space he feels comfortable in and he doesn’t feel an ounce of shame as he leans against one of the walls. A rat scurries past.

In the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie, there’s a forgotten-until-that-moment needle. Needle meets vial meets the crook of his elbow. Keith releases a shuddering sigh as his veins are aglow, and the world recenters.

He’s good. He’s fine. Everything is okay.

And it’s all worth it. 


End file.
